Sullied isn't broken
by Brobdingnagian Pseudonym
Summary: But, just as the crown brushed my fingertips, I was stolen. Or rather, sold. By my jealous elder brother Mycroft, the hidden power behind the mask of god. I was sold as a concubine in a king's collection of exotic objects. AU. Johnlock.
1. Intro

**I'm writing this because I got a random idea and the people I'm staying with are watching a horse soap opera which I'm trying to mentally block.**

**Oh god, how do I start this.**

**I'm just going to jump in.**

**Aaand go!**

My name is Sherlock Holmes. I come from a land of ice and thought. Where centuries of knowledge are carved into the very foundation of civilization and there are more languages than there have ever been people. A land of powdered diamond and crystal spears and frosted forests tearing at the sky. And it would've all been mine. I was a prince, _ever_ so close to becoming king, one step below 'god'. But, just as the crown brushed my fingertips, I was stolen. Or rather, sold. By my jealous elder brother Mycroft, the hidden power behind the mask of god. I was sold as a concubine for a king's collection of exotic objects.

They took me to the edge of a boiling sea. They had to drag me off the ship and onto the burning embers they called land. For seven years I've been kept in a prison of thick perfumes and meaningless riches and _heat. _The first two months I spent in a blind haze of grief and heat-sickness. Sobbing in the dark, too dehydrated to actually shed tears. Having food shoved down my throat only to vomit it up again an hour later. Spending night after night trembling and screaming at the thought that I was so _close_ to the top, and now I'd never even feel a cold breeze again. I was in an endless ocean of despair. Until I overheard...

_**"He must be a weak specimen. The prettiest ones usually are. It'd be best to put him down. Before things get... ugly."**_

They had never guessed that I've picked up their language, idiots that they are. So they never had any hesitation to... speak their mind around me. As I heard it, a cold fury flooded through me. It cleared my head and I began conjuring a plan.

_'Escape whatever it takes, kill whenever possible.'_

The next day, the guards entered my room to give me my daily feeding. They expected the shaking, squealing little slave boy and found Sherlock Holmes, prince among prostitutes.

Gaining the king's favor was so easy, it was laughable. A magic trick here, a flutter of the eyelashes there, the slightest accent from somewhere exotic and I was his prized possession. The queen despised me. Of course, he had no _idea _how easy he was to control. I could've shoved a bit between his teeth and steered him around like a pony and he'd still be oblivious. But, royal and rich as he was, he mattered little to me. In this country, the king was little more than a figurehead. An arrogant, loud, _vulgar_ figurehead with foul breath. With him, I'd be stuck in that blasted country forever. Still, the title of 'the king's personal concubine' allowed me many liberties. It also served as a great vantage point to seek out better targets.

That is how I found Lestrade, the king's general. Smart man. Smart enough to wonder if I was something more than all the other pretty little toys in the king's collection. He caught my interest, so I caught his. Discreetly whispering the secrets of his enemies into his ear before dinner. Suggesting military strategies after 'dessert'. The king may be greedy, but he was in no way selfish. The second Lestrade expressed his fascination with me, I was given over as a gift. Lestrade lives mainly in the palace, so it wasn't as if the king was losing me. I was very happy with the arrangement, as it was originally my idea anyways.

No one would suspect that I, the pretty little dove perched on the shoulder of the king's general, am still waiting to carry out my plan.

'_Escape whatever it takes. Kill whenever possible.'_

**I've got ideas for the next few chapters. But I'm not sure I should continue with this.**

**Tell you what. 5 reviews on this chapter and I'll start up the next one.**

**Also, if this does go above one chapter, I'm thinking of writing all future chapters in third person. It gives me more flexibility**.


	2. Chapter 1

**And the people have spoken! This story will continue as I had promised. But the updates may be a little erratic, as most of my attention has been focused on 'it was either you or the werewolf'. ****If you like Harry Potter, you should read it.**

**As always, my plans are very vague. So suggestions are **_**very **_**appreciated.**

**To all five of my reviewers, thank you very much for making this possible. I hope you enjoy the ride. The rest of you can go to hell. I'M KIDDING! I always keep an eye on the view graph and cheer every time it ticks upwards. Especially for this one.**

It was at a banquet when he first found his key to freedom. It was a banquet to honor wounded and dead soldiers. Here, it's a thing of honor to sacrfice something for the sake of the country. The dead are seen as saints. The more brutal the death, the more saintly they're treated. Sherlock saw it as rubbish. He wouldn't have come if he wasn't ordered to entertain. Even then he was planning on sneaking out mid-way. If someone hadn't caught his eye.

"John." Sherlock whispers in his ear, though he never leaves his seat on the other side of the room. How silly these people are, for announcing their true names so freely. From that single syllable, he takes the briefest taste the man's soul. Sweet as honey, with the slightest tang of iron. Tarnished gold wrapped in wool. John hears him beyond the pretty music. Sees him behind the hollow finery of the palace. He makes eye contact, never breaking it as he walks up to him.

"Did you say something?" John asked, confused.

"Well, you are John Watson, correct?" Sherlock smiled innocently, tilting his chin up slightly more than necessary as he watches John's gaze wander past his jawline. "An honored soldier. Obvious. You wouldn't be here if you weren't. Decorated marksman. Killing an enemy to save a friend certainly suits your morals, but even still you hate having to choose who lives and who dies. Hate having to exchange one life for another. You'd be much better suited to a medical career. If only this society saw the merits of prolonging life, rather than just extinguishing others." He says in a quiet rumble, so only John could hear him. During his speech, he discreetly tugs down the edge of his scarf under the pretense of scratching his neck.

Most of the others prefer brighter, more showy clothing that only covers the necessary bits. But Sherlock knew that would only attract unecessary attention. Fine for a common whore, but He only wears darker, more subtle clothing and is rarely without gloves and a scarf. It adds a sense of mystery to him, which allows him to pick and choose his admirers and draw them in as he pleases.

"Yes. Tha-that's all-...How did you know that?" His eyes dart around the room suspiciously, before anchoring themselves back on Sherlock.

"You told me." Sherlock pauses just long enough to get John curious, but not long enough to allow him to speak. Just as his lips begin forming the word 'how', he starts explaining. "From the second you walked through that door, you've been giving me your entire life story. You and each one of your comrades. The people of this country just don't know how to shut up. But fortunately for me, you're actually saying something interesting."

"Who are you?" John asks, his voice soft with amazment.

He hums lightly "That's refreshing. People don't ask that very often. Usually it's 'what are you'." In one swift motion he rises to his feet, pulls off a glove, wraps his hand around John's neck and pulls his ear to his lips. "If you're really curious, find me."

He whirled away, leaving John Watson trying to make sense of the foreign chills running down his spine.

**Short chapter, I know. But it felt like it was a good stopping point.**

**Things are about to get a little more magical next chapter. I hope you're looking forward to it as much as I am. Reviews would be **_**ever**_** so appreciated, thank you.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Shout out to fangirl- For some reason, nearly all of my best reviews come from guests... anyways. Don't worry, it won't break your heart. Just tug at it a little. Maybe. If I'm feeling merciful...**

**Keep reading, things are about to get much more fantastic.**

**A/N**

**Sorry, it's been awhile. I hit a bit of a block. Then I realized I had to cut a part out and I Really didn't want to so I put it off.**

* * *

Of course John Watson _did_ find him. He tried not to, really he did. He tried to settle back into a normal life and just forget about the war and the traveling and the excitement and the promise of _more _in that man's eyes. He tried to be the good veteran and enjoy being a hero, even though he knows all he's done to earn that title is murder. He tried not to see every young boy he's ever killed in awestruck children's eyes and pretend it's alright.

He tried so _hard_ not to go searching. But every night as he went through his routine of washing out and rewrapping his shoulder wound and massaging the phantom ache from his leg, he couldn't help but think that somehow _he _could help. John didn't even know his name. But somewhere in the back of his head he couldn't shake the feeling that that man **Heard** him. Heheard things John could never have spoken and maybe, just maybe he could fix the things everyone refuses to acknowledge as broken.

Then, one morning just as he was waking up, John heard him.

_'Come find me.' _

John's been having odd thoughts lately. Just silly ideas borne from an idle mind and lingering dreams. His mind would wander to things he'd never considered possible or important. But this was something different. This was distinctly someone else. A very distinct someone else. All at once, he gave up trying.

He charged into the palace like a bull on fire. Brushing off the guards with a stern stare and his obvious limp. It was a good half hour till he realized that he had no idea where he was, what he was looking for or how to find it. Yet, by dumb luck, He had been found by what he was looking for.

John felt a firm tug on his arm and himself being dragged through a doorway he must've missed. Before he could react to what he wasn't sure was going on, he found himself in a darkened room. He couldn't see much more than heavy curtains of smoke, sparkling in the scattered candle flames. They wrapped around him, brushing his skin and creeping under his clothes. He gasped at the touch of the frigid air, which outright defied any definition of cold he had ever known, drawing it into his lungs and allowing it to invade his heart, infecting his bloodstream.

"You're late." The darkness seemed to growl behind him. The smoke shifted. A candle flicked into darkness and back to light.

"I-I... didn't realize I had anything to be late for." He muttered, still sucking in the sweet scent of the smoke. He jolted from his confused trance and turned to the door he was pulled through. "Look, I don't know what I'm even doing here. I'll just-"

A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him deeper into the room. The faded candlelight illuminated just enough marble skin for John to recognize. "I've been calling you for weeks now. You've been resisting. Why?" As he spoke, smoke poured from his lips. Filling John's nostrils and making a swirling mess of his mind.

"I-uh... I'm sure you're very... Good. But I-I'm really not-" John stuttered and stumbled, intoxicated by the smoke and close proximity.

"Yes of course. Neither are Lestrade or the king." The concubine rolled his eyes. The candlelight glinted off them, as if off the tip of a sword. And they pierced John. His cold, long fingers wrapped around John's jaw, causing the war-hardened veteran's eyes to flutter and his muscles weaken. "You've been hearing whispers for the past few weeks. You might've mistaken it for daydreams or a wandering mind. But it wasn't. You know that now. It's the reason you're here and it was all me. I've been calling you for two weeks. Tell me you were listening to _something _I was saying?"

"Y-you... How?" John's thoughts still swam lazily in his mind. "You said... something about fixing me. About all the blood on my hands and all the people I've killed. They weren't just enemies they were _people_. You said I had a chance to... save someone for once."

"Yes yes, that's it." His 'S's hissed, Slithering past his lips on another stream of smoke.

"H-how?" John shook some of the haze out of his mind. Just enough to be aware of how thoroughly it had invaded him. "Wait, no. What are you doing to me?"

"Relax, John." His fingers unlaced from around John's neck and fell to his shoulders, lightly pushing him back into the sofa behind him. "I won't eat you, you're too useful."

The slave lounged back on the opposite side of the sofa, his form constantly shifting in the candlelight. "No doubt, you've heard his _majesty_ bragging about how all his slaves are imported." John nodded, a twinge of disgust making it's way past the numbing haze. He had seen the slaves taken from cities he helped raid. Confused, depressed and angry, only a strong few made it back. Then the out of the few, the damaged goods and the fighters had to be weeded out. But ever the loyal soldier, he kept his opinions to himself.

"They stole me from my home, your kind. They decided I am foreign enough to kidnap and use, but it never once occured to them that, because I'm practically a different species I might function differently. Your kind shoved poisons down my throat, thinking that if I have a mouth and teeth I must eat the same as them. They shoved me out into the sun to burn, because they thought 'a little sunshine would do me good'. They deprived me of my dignity, privacy, health and every simple pleasure I've ever took comfort in, because it was fun. Then, they had me... _service_ them." His voice remained cool and level, even as John trembled with guilt and the suddenly bitter cold. "Because I'm a slave. And that's what slaves were born for, right? Born to be captured and tamed. Traine to serve."

"Who are you?" John's voice was barely a whisper, shaking in the thick air.

"Call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock. Why am I- What do you want from me? Revenge?" It occured to him that he may not make it out of the room alive. Sherlock's bitter smirk only confirmed it. John's back straightened and he raised his gaze to meet the concubine's, drawing on hidden strength to steady himself. "I've seen what they do to... your kind. I stood by and watched and said nothing. Just as I watched children and pregnant women slaughtered in their houses and did nothing but follow orders. I can't bring myself to beg for my life or forgiveness or mercy. All I can say is that killing me will solve nothing. You'll only be locked away and left to d-"

Sherlock had stretched across the gap between them and traced John's lips with the pad of his fingertip, causing his words to catch in his throat. The slave's smirk faded to a light smile. His fingers drifted from lip to cheek, brushing near-imperceptibly against the lines worn into his skin by rough desert days and sleepless nights. "Captain John Hamish Watson. Are you really that dull? I'm offering you the chance to make up for the blood you've shed. How could that possibly translate to your murder?"

John gaped, his mouth forming useless, disconnected syllables. Sherlock drew closer, silencing him with a solid kiss. Quickly forgetting himself and his previous claims of what he wasn't, he eagerly stole the kiss from Sherlock's lips.

"Sherlock." John breathed, not daring to open his eyes lest the sight of him distract from the feel of his fingers dancing across his skin. Sherlock hummed beautiful nonsense into the space behind his ear, tugging at his clothes and pulling him ever closer, weaving a spell around John like a web around a spider's prey. Soon, John could hardly tell the difference between Sherlock's body and voice.

"Sher..." The door flew open, flooding the room with light. John jolted back to full conciousness at the intrusion. He fumbled to pull himself upwards, only to find himself pinned under the feather-light body of Sherlock. The veteran tried to push him off, but he had already lifted himself from the sofa and was pulling a thick cloak over his shoulders.

"Damn. I'll have to start all over again. Lestrade, you better have a good reason for interrupting me."

"We found another one."


End file.
